


and the lights, they glow (like i just lost the world war)

by ElasticElla



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Manipulation, Marriage of Convenience, Unfortunate Implications, romcom but make it dark, see: racism homophobia classism etc.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: Harlan’s will is rewritten. Again.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 26
Kudos: 235
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside)





	and the lights, they glow (like i just lost the world war)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



> title from miike snow's ghengis knan

“Right. Now as uh, most of you know, Harlan altered his will two weeks ago, and then once more the following week. The older version was submitted to the courts for probate, but he requested the latest to be held until his death. So in case there’s any confusion, we can all talk. It should be pretty simple between the house, the sixty million, and sole ownership of the Blood Like Wine publishing company.” 

Marta can’t believe she wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, but was invited to the will reading. Makes no sense, and if one more Thrombey tells her how very sorry they are she couldn’t say goodbye, and that they voted for her to stay, she’s going to need to hit Fran’s stash. (Honestly, she’d rather not be here at all, being in this house, she can’t help imagining Harlan coming downstairs or playing fetch with the dogs, keeps expecting to see him.)

The lawyer clears his throat, “I, Harlan Thrombey, being of sound mind and body, leave all assets, the house, and my publishing company along with the copyrights to Hugh Ransom Drysdale under the following terms-” 

“No!” Walt yells, jumping up to read the will. 

“I thought he was getting cut out, not the whole pie,” Joni complains.

Ransom smirks from his chair, “Previous will.” 

“The previous will!” Donna exclaims, “Surely given his mental health near the end, we’ll go back to splitting everything in thirds.” 

The whole family remembers she’s in the room at the word ‘health’, all turning to her at once. 

Marta swallows, “He was doing well. We were playing our nightly games of Go, he was still writing-” 

“Nevermind,” Donna interrupts when it’s clear she isn’t going to agree with her. “Was this new will even witnessed? Who’s to say Ransom didn’t submit it?”

“Fuck you too Auntie.” 

“Ransom,” his mother chides him gently, but there’s a smile playing around her lips. 

Marta feels ill, the heart attack was only a few days ago and they’re all circling like- like the damn vultures they are. As if each of them aren’t independently wealthy enough to survive without working another day in their life. (Joni, the ‘poor’ one, has a few million in property squirreled away for emergencies. Because she couldn’t bear to sell the Cape house from her previous marriage.)

“Where’s the previous will?” Walt asks, voice strained. The paper flutters back to the desk, “That can’t be lawful.” 

“It is-” 

“The condition!” Walt shouts, “Any decent judge would throw it out.” 

Ransom leans forwards suddenly, “What condition?” 

The lawyer clears his throat again, “The main one being – the condition is that Ms. Cabrera lives in this house with Hugh Drysdale for a year minimum, and enter a mutual contract to share all assets during this time. Defaulting due to Mr. Drysdale’s actions will result in the estate being transferred in its entirety to Ms. Cabrera.” 

The room is split between her and Hugh, and she doesn’t know how to react. Sure, Harlan had been talking about teaching his kids a lesson- but she thought he meant just cutting them off. And only the eldest three, not the grandchildren. This… was it supposed to be a lesson for her too? No, he was never opaque with such things, he would have told her. No point in doing a lesson if the student isn’t learning.

Ransom must know why. Or have a hint at least.

She looks up to see an odd expression on his face, and later she can ask. Which, no, she’s being silly, Walt and Donna are trying to reverse the will. Even Ransom might go for it if his parents cover him, and then there’s no chance of her ending up with everything. 

The idea alone makes her head spin. _What_ was Harlan thinking? 

The others are still talking, she tunes back in to hear Walt questioning what’s to stop ‘that Peruvian bitch from spending all the money?’

“Don’t give her ideas Walt!” Donna hisses, as if she didn’t understand what shared assets were. 

A teasing smile crosses Ransom’s lips, out of place in the room. “Well honey, wanna head down to the courthouse and get hitched?” 

Her eyes go wide, “Wh-what?” 

“Easiest contract that fits the bill,” he says, far too casual for what he’s suggesting. 

“Now wait a moment-” Linda starts, and Richard turns back to the lawyer. “What was the bottom line of the previous will? Three-way split?” he asks. 

“No,” the lawyer says, a new tension entering the room with the denial. 

“You said Ransom wasn’t in it,” Joni starts, getting shushed by Linda.

“Everything goes to Marta Cabrera.” 

Silence falls, and Marta’s breath feels deafening. Harlan- what the _hell_. 

“Suddenly feel like Gramps was sane in his last days, huh Donna?” Ransom asks with a wolfish grin. 

She sniffs, and Walt consoles her, muttering about their own lawyers. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll all sic your pets on me, I’m sure,” Ransom drawls. “Well, _I_ need to assess my new property, so if you could all get the hell out.” 

It’s the most welcome thing she’s heard all day, and Marta’s the first to turn to leave. 

Ransom catches her arm, somehow already crossed the room. “Ah ah. Not you, we need to talk.” 

It takes the family another half hour to clear out. Linda is the last to leave, smugness radiating from her. Marta makes them a pot of coffee, and Fran’s stash is looking even more attractive. 

Back in the sitting room, Marta realizes it’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together. She recalls Harlan saying she should play Go with his grandson sometime, stop picking on senior citizens. Ransom didn’t frequent the house like the others, trying to get on Harlan’s best side. Joni practically lived in one of the guest rooms, and Walt made it to dinner every night. The others tended to contain themselves to the biweekly family dinners, and Harlan had plenty of opinions on all of them. 

Funny, that he gave it all away to the absentee grandson. 

“I don’t understand why he left you everything.” Marta stirs in some more cream, “Harlan was talking about cutting the whole family off, why not you?” 

“Of course he talked to you about it,” Ransom says with a humorless laugh. “Any fun secrets to share with the class?” 

Marta doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to spill her breakfast or that Richard has been cheating.

“Doesn’t matter, we have all year.” He sets down his empty mug, fingers tapping against his knee. “He said I’d have to learn a hard lesson, and after that I’d be set.” He looks her over again, “I don’t get it. You can’t possibly be that bad to live with, no offense.” 

Marta doesn’t get it either. But knowing Harlan, it’ll become clear over time. (Or she’ll find a hidden letter somewhere detailing his thought process that’ll seem obvious in retrospect.)

.

Ransom on the other hand, _is_ that bad to live with. 

He refuses to cook, ordering take-out whenever he’s hungry or stealing food off her plate. (Because it’s so much work to make his own plate in the kitchen.)

He plays online poker all night, which she wouldn’t care about, if he didn’t play it while blasting what can only charitably be described as music. Loud enough that she can feel it all the way up in the top floor study. Luckily with a pillow around her face, she can’t hear it. The thumping bass keeps her wide awake, tingling in her toes, inevitably imagining Ransom three floors down, sitting in front of his laptop with chips and a beer, trash talking whatever poor souls’ money he’s taking today. (She foolishly asked him once his win-lose ratio, was treated to a monologue about how online gambling isn’t about skill just having more money.)

How Ransom hasn’t utterly destroyed his hearing is beyond her. 

He doesn’t help with housekeeping either, not that she expected him to. Fran works days only now, and it’s weird between them, previous coworkers to whatever this is. It was debatable if live-in staff was permissible under the new will, and Ransom said he didn’t care to test it. 

More specifically, he said: “It’s only a year and you little Miss Sunshine are too kind to let me starve or the house fall into disaster.” 

She might actually hate him. 

.

“Look technically the year together doesn’t start until you sign this piece of paper, so the sooner you do it-” 

“I’m not marrying you!” 

“Do you have another way to solve both of our problems? No? Then don’t make me sign it for you.” 

“You can’t do that.” 

Ransom looks her over slow, and Marta crosses her arms, doesn’t like the assessment one bit. “Lemme guess – tilted to the right, neat and squished together cursive, legible if you squint.” 

“What are you-” 

Ransom snatches the pen out of her hand, grabs a scrap piece of paper, and signs her name. “Like that, yeah?”

It feels like she’s been kicked in the chest, her signature staring up at her. 

“How did you… what the fuck.” 

“I must be close then,” Ransom says, smug. “You wanna do the honors or should I?”

Her life would be so much simpler if she had just failed the nursing exam. She could’ve been the family disappointment, gotten a minimum wage job somewhere while crying over all her student loans. Sure, it would’ve been bad and she wouldn’t have ever met – 

She signs it. 

(It gets filed with an intent to marry or whatever, and in three days time, she’ll be a wife. Ransom’s wife. Weird.)

.

She packs her stuff from home swiftly. Ransom made a few rude comments about how she can afford a decent wardrobe now, because god forbid she’s comfortable while lounging around in the mansion. There’s so much already changing, she’s happy to take her grandmother’s blanket and her fluffiest clothes. 

Her mother wasn’t happy about the latest development, but she did like the idea of her having some time off. She doesn’t tell her about the possible immigration silver lining, is waiting until the paperwork’s finalized. 

If she’s being honest, that’s the real reason she agreed to Ransom’s convoluted plan. Not the spending money, or the stress-free year, or because this was what Harlan wanted. But her mom getting legal status? Hell, she’d live with the whole damn family for that. 

(The sizable check she was given doesn’t hurt either, finishes paying off her debts.)

.

Marta doesn’t know why Ransom agrees to nightly Go matches. She’d offered on an impulse, two glasses of wine tipsy and missing Harlan. Ransom is a terrible loser, and he loses most games to her. If he were someone else, she’d think it a lovely gesture, continuing a tradition for his grandfather. 

But she knows Ransom better than that, and Ransom is an asshole. 

There’s something else he’s getting out of them playing Go. It isn’t enjoyment, nor remembrance, best she can guess he’s become minorly obsessed with beating her. 

Which. That’s ridiculous. Even living together, he still probably sees her as the help, a small miracle that he hasn’t demanded she call him ‘Hugh’. 

(Bad sport or not, Marta enjoys playing him. She can see Harlan’s influence in the moves he makes.)

.

Marta has started sleeping in. Being a kept woman agrees with her sleeping schedule at least, feels like she hasn’t been so energized since she was a child. 

For once, Ransom is up and about while she pours her oatmeal. 

“There are bagels from Panera,” he says, gesturing to the bag. “Unless you prefer your geriatric mush.” 

“I do.”

“Whatever,” Ransom shoves two long skinny boxes at her. “Pick one out.” 

With a raised eyebrow, Marta opens one of them, and promptly drops her spoon, oatmeal splattering all over the table. “Oh my god.” 

Half a dozen diamond rings are sparkling up at her, any one of them probably worth more than she’s ever earned or spent, combined.

She grabs a napkin to clean up the mess, eyes stuck on the glittering gems, and Ransom drums his fingers on the counter top. “If you don’t like them, we can get something custom made.” 

“As long as one fits,” Marta says, opening up the second box. 

He shrugs, “You’re the one wearing it for the next year.” 

The second set is far more conventional, antique rings, some even with initials tucked in tiny corners. 

“Are… are these the Thrombey rings?” 

“If you’re feeling traditional,” Ransom says, nonchalant as if he isn’t offering up family heirlooms. “I know how you hate to,” he drops his voice dramatically, “spend money.” 

Marta bites her tongue, she has a reasonable budget, unlike other people at the table. Taking a breath, she reminds herself they aren’t even a week into this – fighting now will only make the year impossibly long. 

Reaching for the jewelry store rings – because she can’t wear a Thrombey ring, not because Ransom’s being a dick – Marta selects the most reasonable one. On a rose-gold band, there’s a set of three diamonds, and it slides onto her finger easily, fits perfectly. Lovely as it is, it already feels like it’s weighing her hand down. 

“Of course you picked that one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He snorts, pointing to the gaudy central ring with a diamond that would spill over to her other fingers. “You picked the small one. Joni, hell even Meg, would’ve taken that one.” 

“Seems like a great reason not to,” she mutters, blames the morning hour for it getting past her filter. 

Ransom laughs, looks unfairly handsome when he does. Bad people should be ugly like in the stories. (How is it that bad seems harsh but asshole accurate? It’s only day five and she’s already losing her mind.) 

“Make sure you leave it on. Walt is allegedly dropping everything, but I don’t trust him.” 

Her eyebrows come together, “Don’t they all know it’s a paperwork thing…?” 

“Dunno, lawyer’s advice,” he says with the ease of someone who consults their lawyer far too often. 

She turns back to her breakfast, but the oatmeal’s long gone cold and gluey. 

“We still have the bagels,” Ransom says with a know-it-all smirk, getting up and grabbing the ring boxes. “I’m headed out, I’ll be back for lunch.” 

He glances at the oatmeal, amending, “I’ll bring lunch home.” 

Marta rolls her eyes, “A little plain food wouldn’t kill you.” 

He gasps, “I knew you were only marrying me for the money. Just waiting to steal the family fortune with me out of the way.” 

“You’ve read too many of your grandfather’s books.” 

“Huh, it kinda feels like one doesn’t it?” 

Marta groans, “Thanks, now I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Hey I’m the one that should be worried about a knife.” 

“Didn’t you have errands to run or something?” she asks, dropping the bowl in the sink. 

“It feels like you’re pushing me away-” 

“Good _bye_ Ransom,” Marta says, grabbing the Panera bag and heading upstairs. 

“-this is no way to start a marriage!” 

At this point, Ransom might just turn her into a murderer. 

.

Marta is sitting in the library, untouched cup of tea in front of her and staring out the window. It’s been a week since her life had any form of order; a bland, weird week. There’s no escaping the troubling conclusion she’s reached: 

She’s bored. 

She’s been turned into a pampered trophy wife, and doesn’t know what to do – doesn’t _want_ to do anything. She could read one of the many books she’s been putting off until she has free time, or try one of her grandmother’s longer recipes, or with her new funds, she could literally do anything, buy anything. 

Marta doesn’t know if it’s simply ennui or dried up ambition, desire – nothing sounds appealing. 

Low vibrations save her from herself, what a joke of a rich person problem she has, Marta checking her phone. There’s a new text, and she swipes it open.

_hey, how r u?_

The last time Meg texted her was three months ago, asking her preferred pizza toppings. Marta shakes her head, she’s been around Ransom too much, is getting paranoid. Meg doesn’t usually text her because usually she sees Meg around the house. (Ransom had gleefully told his family he wanted to abide by his grandfather’s last wishes as strictly as possible, saying no visitors until the next year.)

She replies that she’s doing well, asking after Meg. The pizza texts are still visible on her screen, and the uncharitable thoughts return. 

_worried about school. i hate to ask you, but i haven’t heard and my mom wants to pull me if we can’t afford it, could u find out if he’s paying my tuition?_

Marta sighs, turning her screen off. Of course it was about the money. Rubbing her eyes she wonders if Meg knows about her mother’s house on Cape Cod, shaking her head at herself and grabbing a random book off the shelf. She isn’t getting involved in the family drama, she _isn’t_. 

(The book she grabbed was Stephen King’s The Eyes of the Dragon, and Marta happily slips away into the fantasy world. She half-remembers the story, read it to Harlan a few years back after his stroke when he was having vision problems.)

.

Ransom’s eye keeps landing on her ring while they play Go, and Marta isn’t sure if it’s because of how sparkly the diamonds are or a dirty trick to throw her off. 

“What’s going on with your house?” Marta asks, the first questionable factoid that comes to mind. 

He raises an eyebrow, and yeah, okay, not the best one. She blames the ring – thinking of that led to the marriage to them living together to the reminder that Ransom has his own place somewhere.

“Harlan mentioned it, a cabin I think?” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t surprise me if that’s why he said I had to live here,” he says with a bitter laugh. “Hated it, said it was and I quote, ‘an exhibitionist’s dream palace to live on stage’.”

She sets a piece down, “In the woods?” 

There’s a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, “He wasn’t one to let facts get in the way of a pretty metaphor.” 

Marta doesn’t reply, watches his move instead. Truthfully, she never could get into Harlan’s writing, something he happily never discovered. While she enjoyed talking plot and methods and twists with Harlan, the actual prose was, well, not her cup of tea.

“Oh, Meg was asking today if you’re paying her tuition?”

“Fuckin’ cowardly dyke,” he says, placing his stone in a bad spot. “Lil cuz doesn’t even have the balls to ask me herself.”

He looks at her, waiting for a reaction, and Marta keeps her face carefully neutral. She’s been dragged into enough political strawman arguments to spot them from far off. 

“Boring,” he mutters. “What did you tell her?” 

“I didn’t. I wanted to ask you first.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Nah, I need the exact wording. Was it like ‘I’ll talk to my sexy housemate later’ or more like-” 

Marta throws a decorative pillow at his face. Hits him perfectly, the look of shock the icing on the cake. 

“I haven’t texted her back yet.” 

Ransom wipes his mouth, tosses the pillow behind him. “That bitch wanted you to put something in writing.”

Marta puts her piece down, capturing two of his black stones and removing them. “So?” 

He cocks his head to the side, “What would you do?” 

Marta laughs, “If I was in charge of sixty million dollars?” 

He shrugs, “Almost happened.” 

She shakes her head, still hasn’t wrapped her mind around that. “It’s education. I’d pay the school directly.” 

“You really would’ve,” he says, with a not-so-nice smile. “You’re way too kind.” 

“Sure. What would you have done if the second will wasn’t filed?” 

Ransom grins wide, capturing one of her pieces. “Oh, the same.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Convinced you to marry me.” 

“Ha,” she says, throat dry. 

He grins, standing up and tossing her the piece he just captured. “Make sure you wear white tomorrow.” 

.

When Marta was a young girl, she imagined getting married a dozen different ways. Who she was marrying never mattered, it was always about fantastic far away places and her family. 

Picking up a marriage license and having it subsequently signed by an officiant, feeling far more reminiscent of getting a driver’s license with shorter lines, is not how she imagined it. 

It’s a good thing, really. The more reminders that this is strictly a marriage of convenience, the better. She’s seen enough telenovelas and romantic comedies to know the potential disaster lurking in domesticity. (As if Ransom is anything close to their lead men – he might have the jawline, but he’s missing a moral compass and basic empathy.)

Ransom’s lips are dry on hers, businesslike. 

(The swoop in her stomach is relief. That’s it.)

.

They go out to dinner, to a small sushi restaurant Ransom says is his favorite. The place has been cleared out, it’s just them, the chef, and a waitress. Ransom only speaks to the chef in what sounds like fluent Japanese, and god, Marta just married one of the white boys that used to try and impress her by knowing Spanish. 

Christ. She is _never_ letting her friends meet him. 

She’s made her way through half the pot of green tea before their dinner is ready, and honestly, she’s very okay with that. Each conversation with Ransom feels like a round of emotional Russian Roulette, will it: 1) result in Ransom saying something super offensive, 2) have Ransom remind her of Harlan in some way, 3) make her wish for a stiff drink or hit, 4) have him say something stupid amusing, 5) Ransom looking irritatingly attractive, or the worst, 6) when Ransom says something terrible and true, and her stomach roils because she wants to fight it. 

“Enjoy,” the waitress says, setting a giant boat between them. There’s got to be at least a hundred pieces of sushi decorating it, there’s no way they’re finishing this. 

Ransom picks one up, holding it up to cheers, and Marta follows suit. 

“To a long and happy marriage,” he says, eyes glimmering. 

“Funny,” she replies, doesn’t know how else to, bopping their sushis together. Marta eats hers before he can actually, god forbid, make a dramatic wedding speech. She wouldn’t put it past him, he loves the sound of his own voice far too much. 

Holy shit. 

Marta quickly swipes up another piece that looks like the one she ate. There was salmon, and avocado, and lobster on top, some orange sauce, and it was _amazing_. 

She doesn’t slow down until her stomach is bursting, looks up to see an all too amused Ransom. 

“Glad to see there’s something I can bribe you with, I was getting worried I was marrying an honorable woman.” 

Rolling her eyes, Marta sips some more water, making enough room for a piece of tuna nigiri. 

(There’s still two dozen pieces of sushi leftover, boxed up to go home. Ransom gave her a look, but whatever, her mother will enjoy it, and won’t question the price tag as they’re leftovers.)

Marta dozes in and out on the drive home. There’s soft jazz playing on the stereo, and weird as her life is, it’s nice too. (It’s so easy to be carefree as a rich person, so easy to be.)

In a surprising display of chivalry, Ransom grabs the leftovers and puts them away in the fridge. She’ll go surprise her mother tomorrow with them, maybe get her some pretty jewelry too. 

The kitchen’s bright lights help wake her up, and it’s only nine – sleeping now means she’ll wake up around three and will screw up her whole schedule. (It’s odd to think she can do that now with no real repercussions.) 

“Wanna consummate this in my room or yours?” 

The words startle her wide awake, “Consummate?” 

Ransom’s smile is sharp, “Oh c’mon Marta, you knew eventually one of us was going to dick you down. Lucky for you it’s me, not Walt or Meg with her silicone or Har-” 

Marta’s hand snaps out to slap him without thought.

Ransom licks his lips, “Or did he already?” 

“Fuck you,” she hisses, leaves to her room. 

The day had been going too good. She’d let herself get wrapped up in it, let herself forget what an absolute asshole Ransom Drysdale is. 

She locks the door. 

He didn’t follow, not that she expected him to. He plays his obscenely loud music, probably drinking or gambling or whatever rich person vice he’s going for tonight. 

.

Her dreams are tangled, too much on her mind when she fell asleep. 

Ransom’s feeding her sushi, thumb brushing over her lips. 

‘What do you want?’ he asks, demands really. His eyes are on fire, and she can’t look away. His fingers are skimming down her side, ticklish and distracting, and she can’t speak. 

‘Anything, just say it.’ 

Marta opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, his fingers slipping in, trapping her tongue. 

‘Do you want more pretty rocks?’ he asks, and the bed is suddenly covered with jewels of all shapes and sizes, digging into her bare skin. 

‘More money?’ he asks, hundred dollar bills raining from the ceiling. 

‘Love?’ he offers, laughter in his eyes, and lips brushing against her jaw. Sickly sweet breath fanning over her. She arches up against him, warmth bubbling in her stomach. 

‘You’re already mine,’ he taunts, and her mind rebels, but her teeth won’t close around his fingers. 

When she wakes with a dry mouth, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she won’t remember the dream. 

(A small kindness from her brain that’s turned malevolent.)

.

Ransom has the money transferred to Meg’s school. Meg doesn’t reach out again, and Marta feels guilty with relief. Harlan used to complain his descendants only talked to him when they needed money, and it’s a gross feeling. 

Ransom doesn’t mention consummation again, but his eyes keep straying to her hands, to her ring. Marta catches herself looking at where his lip is swollen, can still feel the hit. Wants to do it again, must be going crazy locked in this house with him. (Like she’s absorbing all his bad traits, or maybe freeing herself of any blame.)

He beats her at Go one night, it isn’t the first time, but it’s certainly the most dramatic, a board of almost all black staring up at her. Ransom’s as sore a winner as he is loser, going on about how he’s analyzed her play style over each and every game, and how she’ll never best him again. His voice is grating, and Marta snaps. 

“Shut up and kneel.” 

The words surprise both of them, even more surprising is how quickly Ransom does. Eyes dilated as he inches in front of her. Doesn’t stop until he’s between her legs, hair brushing against her fingertips. How he manages to look like a predator even on his knees, and her hand tingles with phantom slaps.

“What? Didn’t plan this far ahead?” he goads her. “Nothing new for you-” 

“I said shut up Ransom, or get out.” 

He falls silent, doesn’t move. 

“Always wagging your tongue,” she muses, and Ransom glares up at her. His body doesn’t move an inch, and it’s a heady realization how much he wants to be here. It’s tempting to push him, to see where his breaking point is. Would he let her denigrate him, let her fuck him, let her turn his ass red – 

Marta swallows, the intensity of her desires taking her aback. That and how… cruel they are. She’d never thought of it before, not like this. 

“Let’s see how good you are with it then.” 

Ransom doesn’t hesitate, pulling her jeans and panties down to her knees and diving in. He laps at her quick, as though she might change her mind at any moment and he needs to get his fill. His thumbs hold her open, tongue delving in as deep as possible. 

Marta’s hand sinks into his hair, tugging because she can. Nice as it feels, her head is swimming due to the position, the power – not the sex. God, she feels like every stupid cliché turned on its head. The reverse is exactly how she would’ve imagined Ransom fucking some girl before, probably choking her on his cock like the inconsiderate dick he is. 

Her nails scratch against his scalp, and he groans into her. Her thighs tighten around his head, and he’s so much better like this. Silent and pretty, only here to please her. 

The thoughts feel like blasphemy, like she should be nicer. (His words echo back then, ‘you’re way too kind’, and god, if only.)

She wonders how long she could make him do this. If he could last when his knees get sore, when his jaw locks, when his enthusiasm has drained, and the motions are rote. If he would start begging, turn back into the sore loser he is. 

Ransom’s mouth moves back to her clit, and the sucking combined with the thoughts, makes her come. He looks up at her again, disheveled and oh-so pretty. His chin is soaked in wetness, lips glossy, erection straining against his slacks. 

She’s debating what to do with it as Ransom comes back to himself. His point before about consummation wasn’t entirely hollow, and the idea of slowly riding him until he can’t take any more holds some appeal. (So does fucking him, and he’s the one that brought up silicone dildos first.)

“Hey, what about me?” he speaks, breaking them moment.

Marta changes her mind, some patience would be good for him. She stands, pulling her jeans up, and patting his head. “Maybe next time. If you’re good.” 

He shudders, doesn’t stand, and Marta heads to her room. Improbable as is seems, they might just have a happy marriage after all.

At the very least, a satisfying one.

**Author's Note:**

> regarding the canon au, a few semi-offscreen ransom things he did: most notably 1) ransom did submit the marta will to the courts, and replaced the one on file with the will he created, rightfully assuming his family wouldn't seriously challenge it if the previous will on record went all to marta, 2) there's some obsession from his pov for sure, see also: including the conditions so marta would have to live with him, knowing her signature & fun fact all the rings from the store presented were in her size, and he wanted marta wearing the ring, not his lawyer lol


End file.
